


Hot Buttered Rum

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, lol what finale?, shameless fluff, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cold night in gets significantly warmer after a couple of drinks. Or, more specifically: Netflix and “whoops, making out like horny teenagers on the couch.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Buttered Rum

**Author's Note:**

> I know I rarely venture outside of my Dragon Age ficcing den, but since I’m full of _feelings_ after my Sleepy Hollow binge ended in That Finale That Totally Didn’t Happen, now some just-AU-enough Ichabbie is happening.

Alright, so the Netflix subscription was actually a pretty good investment. Abbie’s never been a huge TV watcher, but there are worse ways to spend a frigid Saturday night when the world’s not ending for a change than a Crockpot full of hot buttered rum and introducing Crane to the concept of binge-watching.

“That is _not_ what happened,” Crane sniffs for what must be the fortieth time, and okay, _maybe_ Abbie picked _Turn_ because she gets a kick out of drunk Crane’s Very Strong Opinions about anything set in the Revolutionary era.

And he _is_ drunk. Abbie’s already pretty tipsy nursing her second mug, but that sweet tooth of his has Crane on his fifth or sixth serving, and the man does _not_ half-ass his cocktail mixing. Abbie warned him about giving himself a hangover, but after getting the customary response of “Something something Benjamin Franklin something,” decided not to push the issue.

“You should write them a letter,” she says, valiantly fighting off a fit of giggles as she rests her head on his shoulder. She’s not entirely sure when they got into this position–side by side on the couch, one of her legs slung haphazardly over his lap–but it’s comfortable, and he’s warm, and she’s not moving.

“I _should_. Your generation’s ignorance of events that transpired a mere two centuries ago is utterly appalling.”

“Well, you know. Pics or it didn’t happen.”

“My comrades-in-arms cannot reasonably be held accountable for a lack of photography equipment,” Crane mutters, and Abbie snorts into her mug as he launches into one of those big Crane-speeches about modern technology, and she’s not really paying attention to the words because, lord, this drink is stronger than it tastes, but the low rumble of his voice makes her feel all cozy inside, so she’s not complaining. “–And _this_ ,” he finishes at last, the words coming out just a little slurred as he brings his mug to his lips with a grandiose flourish, “is _very_ good rum.”

Abbie laughs as his victory sip leaves foam clinging to his moustache. “I can see that. You’re wearing it.” She reaches up to swipe away the sticky-sweet mess with the pad of her thumb, and swallows hard when Crane, in his relentless pursuit of sugar, catches her thumb between his lips and sucks it clean.

Abbie laughs shakily, some half-hearted crack about diabetes dying on her tongue as Crane envelops her hand with his own, interlacing their fingers as he flattens her palm against his drink-warmed cheek.

“Lieutenant,” he sighs, closing his eyes like a happy cat. “It has been my greatest blessing that our paths were fated to be entwined.”

“Crane,” she answers, squirming in her seat as Crane, who is apparently a very flirty drunk, turns his head to kiss her palm. “I think that’s enough rum for you, my man.”

He hums softly, pressing another kiss to her palm, and Abbie isn’t sure if he didn’t hear her or is just too far gone to register what she said, because he continues, punctuating every other word with soft kisses from her wrist to her fingertips, “My life before, whatever joy I felt, is but a pale shadow of what I have now. What you have brought me. No words can adequately express the depths of my gratitude that you but live.”

Abbie licks her lips. “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she jokes weakly, and God, he’s made those eyes at her before, and it’s always gotten her a little hot and bothered, but she’s always been able to write it off as something else, which is a lot harder to do when he’s this close and kissing her hand like that.

“There is no woman in Heaven or on Earth who is your equal, Grace Abigail Mills,” Crane says with such fierce sincerity that Abbie can’t breathe as he cups her cheek (and is it weird to think someone’s hands are sexy, because she’s had elaborate freaking _daydreams_ about Crane’s hands), and she’s not really sure how they get from Point A to Point B, but the next thing she knows Crane’s lips are pressed against hers.

The kiss is soft and tender; more chaste and less demanding than any she’s ever received, and yet somehow it sets her body on fire as no other has. Her fingers wind themselves into the front of Crane’s shirt, holding him close, desperate to prolong this perfect moment between them.

But it ends, as all moments do. Crane pulls away slightly, his eyes still half-closed, his hands still framing her face.

This was a mistake. Abbie knows that. This role, this mission of theirs is too important to jeopardize by falling in love, she tells herself, even though she knows in her heart that that ship has long since sailed.

“Crane,” she begins. _We can’t. It’s not right. It’s too risky_ , she wants to say, but the words won’t come. “Oh, fuck it,” she says, sinking her fingers into his hair and pulling him in for another kiss.

He accepts it eagerly, his mouth slanting against hers, moaning softly as she sucks his bottom lip between her own. He pulls her to straddle his lap (God, he’s so much bigger than she is), one arm around her waist, pinning her to his chest as he gently– _politely_ , Abbie thinks, almost laughing–traces his tongue along the seam of her lips.

She parts her lips for him, both of them sighing as they deepen the kiss.

This… this has been building up for a while, Abbie admits to herself as whimpers and mewls and girlier sounds than she’d ever believed herself capable of bubble up from her chest while Crane nips and suckles at her lips. She has no idea how long they’ve wanted this. _Needed_ this. Maybe it’s been months, maybe it’s been years; hell, maybe some part of them started wanting it the day they met. Abbie doesn’t know, and she doesn’t care, because they’re here, they’re together, they’re both a little drunk, and she loves him–she _loves_ him–and nothing can take this away from them.

His beard tickles her as she trails kisses, licks, and gentle bites along his jaw and down to his neck. Her lips find the pulse going crazy in his throat and she _sucks_ , drawing a moan out of him that she’s pretty sure will have ruined her panties if those little nibbles he’s been giving her ear haven’t already done the trick. “ _God_ , Crane,” she breathes, feeling him shudder as she rakes her teeth over his neck.

“Lieutenant,” he groans, suckling her earlobe as one hand softly–reverently–grips her ass. “I’m afraid I find myself in something of a predicament, for at this moment I am quite ardently inclined to take you to bed.”

Abbie shivers, heat coiling low in her belly as her rum- and kiss-addled brain registers the impressive bulge pressing intimately against her. “Kinda sounds like the _opposite_ of a predicament, Crane,” she says, nipping sharply at his neck, and maybe this is a little fast, but it’s taken them actual centuries to find each other, so what the hell? “You want to take this upstairs?”

She _hears_ Crane swallow.

“We are unwed,” he says. “It would be most improper.”

Abbie chuckles, licking her way back up his neck. “That’s a little funny coming from a guy who’s still grabbing my ass.”

Crane pulls his hand away like he’s been burned, and Abbie _howls_. “Be that as it may,” he says primly, “before we consummate this relationship, I should very much like to–in the words of your generation–’put a ring on it.’”

Abbie’s laughter dies abruptly.

 _God in Heaven_ , did that boy just propose?

She pulls back, staring into his face for any hint of humor, and finds none. Her hands begin to tremble where they clutch him. “Swear to God, Crane, if you’re messing with me for a Green Card, I’m kicking your ass.”

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, his eyes locked on hers as his tongue darts out to moisten his lips. “Then it would appear, Lieutenant, that my arse is quite safe.” He clears his throat. “I will understand, of course, if you are not amenable to the suggestion. We have, after all, had nothing resembling a proper courtship, and–”

Abbie kisses him soundly.

 

* * *

 

Abbie wakes suddenly the next morning.

It takes her a good thirty seconds to realize she’s not in her bedroom, and at least another thirty to realize that she’s actually laying on the couch. Correction: she’s laying on _Crane_ , who is laying on the couch. Her cheeks flush as the memory of the previous night comes rushing back. She sneaks a glance up at Crane’s face, finding him awake and just as flushed.

“Crane.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Look–”

“Hey guys,” Jenny calls from the hallway (the door must have woken them, Abbie realizes belatedly), and both of them freeze as her footsteps draw closer. “I think those pumpkin donuts you like are seasonal, Crane, so instead I got…” Jenny’s voice trails off as she enters the living room.

Slowly, and with a profound sense of dread, Abbie peeks over the back of the couch.

Jenny is standing just inside the doorway, a box of donuts in her hand, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk tugging at her lips, and Abbie is acutely aware of exactly how bad this looks.

She and Crane speak at once.

“So, what happened was–”

“If you would permit me to offer an explanation–”

Jenny holds up her hand. “Guys. Seriously? _Literally_ everyone saw this coming. Just embrace it.” She turns on her heel. “I’ll get brunch started,” she calls as she strides from the room.

Abbie lets out a breath and begins to slump down, then pauses when she remembers that to do so would put her right back on top of Crane, and scoots to the far end of the couch instead. He sits up as well, and Abbie nearly groans when the morning sun reveals several hickeys on his neck and chest. _Lovely_.

Crane clears his throat. “Regarding our hasty betrothal–”

“You know what? Don’t even worry about it,” Abbie says quickly, pushing herself off the couch. “We were both pretty drunk, and it’s probably better if–”

“I wish to court you, Lieutenant.”

Abbie’s certain her brain must have short-circuited, but when she finally forces herself to look at him again, it’s clear that she heard him correctly. She quirks an eyebrow. “You want to do _what_?”

“I wish to court you,” he repeats. “Properly. If you will have me,” he adds.

Abbie opens her mouth. Closes it. She should say ‘no.’ She _intends_ to say ‘no.’ But he’s giving her those goo-goo eyes and he just looks so damned _earnest_ that she can’t quite force her brain to overrule her heart on this one.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I’d like that.”

In a matter of seconds Crane is standing before her, her hands clasped in his. He kisses her knuckles. “You do me the profoundest honor, Lieutenant.”

Abbie grins. “You know, if we’re going to be… _courting_ , you can probably start calling me ‘Abbie.’”

“Yes. Of course, Lieu–Abbie,” he says. He releases her hands, and then looks like he’s not sure what else to do with himself. “I should help Miss Jenny, I think.”

No sooner has he rushed off to do this than Abbie’s phone vibrates with a new text from Jenny, which she opens to find a picture of a guy in eighteenth-century dress smiling at the viewer, emblazoned with the words “Irrelevant, Performed Intercourse.”

“How did she find that so fast?” Abbie mutters to herself as she goes to join the two of them in the kitchen.


End file.
